Poker Face
by Abracadebra
Summary: London has ordered the heroes to halt an internal threat to their operation without attracting further attention from their captors, and they have 24 hours to do it. With Hogan handling damage control, success depends on Newkirk working with Kinch and keeping his cool. (Started last year for Short Story Speedwriting challenge, hence opening line. Speedwriting clearly not my thing.)


"Saturday," Newkirk said as he expertly dealt the cards, "Tomorrow is Saturday."

Tap, snap, glide. Long before the war, I'd played my share of Friday night poker, but I'd never seen anyone handle cards as crisply and confidently as Peter Newkirk. Watching him deal, I was momentarily mesmerized, or maybe just bone tired. It had been three long days since the trouble with Murdock came to a boil, and sleep wasn't a notable feature of our existence under the best of circumstances.

"Bets, gentlemen. Wakey-wakey, Kinch. You in, mate?" Newkirk said, a quizzical grin curling the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah, deal me in," I answered. I stifled a yawn and knuckled two cigarettes to the middle of the table, acquiring a splinter for my troubles. Picking at the joint of my ring finger, I got back to the subject: "Saturday. Tomorrow. Right. What do you think the Colonel has in mind? Ah—gotcha." I looked up at Newkirk. "Damn splinter," I explained.

"What, you're asking me what he has in mind? I haven't a clue, mate. And I asked you first." Newkirk scrutinized his cards and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke out through his nose. He was a portrait of studied indifference, but I knew better. He was starting to worry.

"You didn't ask anything. You just said tomorrow is Saturday," I said with a smirk.

Newkirk shrugged, smiled his rogue's smile, and stubbed out his cigarette. "Fair enough," he said. Then, turning his attention to the table, he called, "Bets, gentlemen. Thank you very much, Addison, Olsen… Come on, LeBeau, call or raise. Don't be all night about it."

LeBeau shot Newkirk a look, added two cigarettes to the pot, swapped out three cards, then looked up at me, earnest as a schoolboy. "You have been with le Colonel day and night, Kinch. What do you think? He has a plan, oui?"

I gave into the yawn and scraped a dry hand over my face. "He has a plan, non. If he's hatching something, I can't make sense of it." I felt a little sick at that admission. Making sense of the Colonel's schemes was my stock in trade. Even when I couldn't see where he was going, I usually knew when he was off and running. Not this time.

LeBeau was clearly disappointed. I added softly, "All I know is that it's got to be done by tomorrow. Orders." He nodded.

Newkirk reached into his breast pocket and lazily plopped three cigarettes onto the pile, then laid down two cards and picked up two more. "Met and raised. Where's Andrew got to?" Not even a trace of irritation in his voice. Yep, he was worrying.

"Talking to the fellas in Barracks 7," I answered. "He was friendly with Murdock. The Colonel figured it couldn't hurt to have him poke around." Newkirk furrowed his eyebrows and pursed his lips. His thinking face. "Don't worry, man, I briefed him. He won't say anything," I assured him.

He nodded, but put down his hand anyway, too distracted to concentrate. "Fold," he said.

Newkirk? Fold? This Friday night was one for the history books. Seizing my moment through a haze of fatigue, I upped the ante by two more cigarettes, and in a chorus of sighs and expletives, the rest of the guys surrendered. Game over, courtesy of three lousy Jacks. I'm sure Newkirk could have outbluffed us all, but no one's heart was in this game.

Newkirk gathered up his cards and his chips, and smiled as he scooped up eight or 10 of my cigarettes. "Dealer's cut," he grinned at me.

"Take 'em," I said with a jab in his direction. "You would have mooched them anyway."

"You wound me, mate," he replied as stashed his cards and his take in a small wooden box he kept under the bunk. I gave him a nod and he followed me outside. LeBeau was already out there, leaning against the barracks wall, taking in the cool night air.

"You said the Guv sent you up top? Now, why would he do that?" Newkirk quizzed me as we lit up our smokes.

"Yep," I replied. "Said he needed to be alone when London calls."

LeBeau shook his head and spoke softly to himself. "C'est troublant. Il a lui inquiet. Ou il nous protège. Ou ..."1

"No, it's not good," Newkirk agreed. Despite the heavy mood, I found myself stifling a laugh. I'm not sure if Newkirk understands French, or if he just understands Louis. I'm sure he'd deny either accusation. "I don't know, Kinch," he continued. "We should be down there with him. This mess belongs to all of us, not just the Colonel."

"We have to leave him alone, Pete," I told Newkirk – kindly but firmly, I hoped. "His orders. London isn't taking this well. If he gets a dressing down, he should get it in private." LeBeau nodded. Newkirk started to protest, but he didn't have a chance to finish.

A commotion erupted around the corner of our barracks, from the direction of Barracks 7. There was Carter, being half-pushed, half-dragged by three of Murdock's pals. Suddenly I was pulling Newkirk off Donnelly—big and stupid never stopped Peter—and a bloodied Carter was in a heap at our feet. Donnelly lumbered off, and his rats scurried after him.

"Let them go," I told Newkirk with a shake. "We'll deal with them later. Let's get Carter inside before the guards catch wind of this. LeBeau, go get Wilson."

1 "That's troubling. Something is bothering him… or he's protecting us… or…"


End file.
